Murder in the Second Pew Read online

  Chapter Seven

  Could Be Trouble

  Owen Seegler hadn’t had a hangover like this for over ten years. Every swish of the milk jetting from the cow’s teat into the steel bucket shoved a spear-like pain through his head.

  At least his puke would be cleaned up with the rest of the cow manure in the barn, and the evidence of his plunge from the wagon last night would be cleansed.

  His soul, however, was another matter.

  He finished off the last of the heifers and released them to the pasture, washed down the barn and headed for the house to clean up. Sherylene would have his breakfast ready. He prayed he’d be able to keep it down.

  She’d been asleep when he got home last night and was still asleep when he got up this morning. Hopefully she’d think he was at a late job for Norm Krall. In fact the contractor had been out of town on a job yesterday, but a phone call in the afternoon had secured Owen some work later today.

  For money, he would endure yet again having to work side by side with Zach Gibbons.

  “Hi, darlin’.” Sherylene smiled as he came into the room. She walked over, coffee in hand, and kissed him good morning. “Did you get some work yesterday?”

  He evaded her gaze. “Workin’ on the Pavilion remodel before the July Fourth Ice Cream Social. I guess you heard the Novaks are springin’ for the cost of a new stage since Jimmy Jr.’s goin’ to be here to speak.”

  Sherylene put the coffee in front of him as he sat. “The Fourth of July. My goodness, is it that time already?”

  “Next week. Saturday’s the first of July. Which reminds me, I have church council Saturday lunch.” He picked up the steaming mug of coffee. “You and Rebecca okay for the afternoon milkin’s through Saturday?”

  She brought the food over to the table and sat down. “This week, no problem. But I expect I’ll have Monday or Tuesday funeral duty for the Ladies Aid.”

  Braving the smell of the freshly cooked eggs, Owen spooned some onto his plate. “Who died?”

  “Melinda Platt. Got the call while you were out milkin’.”

  “Melinda Platt.” Owen looked up in surprise. “Did they finally figure where she got to?”

  Sherylene lowered her voice. “Apparently, she never left.”

  “How’s that?” Owen reached for the bacon. Perhaps he could hold something down.

  Sherylene glanced at the doorway to make sure none of the kids were within ear shot. “She’s been lyin’ dead at the bottom of the Colorado all this time. Never did run away.”

  Owen’s hand froze over the meat dish. “Beg pardon?”

  “Ann Fullenweider said that the back of Melinda’s head was bashed in. ‘Course, we’re not supposed to say. Coroner’s got the body. Callie Mae is beside herself.”

  Owen willed himself to speak. “I would think so.” Bile was rising up his throat, and he put down the fork. Be calm, he told himself.

  He looked at his watch and feigned surprise. “Look at the time! I’d better get goin’ to work.” He pushed away from the table and forced himself to take one last chug from his coffee. He had to appear as if all was normal. “Those booths won’t build themselves.”

  “Thank goodness Norm had some work for you,” Sherylene said brightly. “I knew the Good Lord would provide.”

  “Right.” Owen grabbed his truck keys and rushed out the kitchen door.

  The smile died on Sherylene’s face. That was two mornings in a row Owen hadn’t kissed her good-bye.

  ***

  Angie was sitting in the Fire and Ice House’s front booth studying sales reports when Chelsea arrived at five minutes to ten. At least the little slut was fully dressed, Angie thought, taking note of Chelsea’s jeans and Red Bull T-shirt. She’d kept the Cleopatra eye make-up, however.

  Angie had endured a long night. Between the jetlag, the scene with Chelsea, and the unsettling realization that she hadn’t gotten over how good that preacher looked, she was in no mood to play games. Her intent was to fire the girl right now, even though Bo had stood up for the vixen after the bar closed last night. Maybe Chelsea had come in at a moment’s notice and kept things going, but her wild ways did not belong in the Fire and Ice House.

  Angie nodded Chelsea to sit, then opened the discussion without preamble. “I didn’t want to do this in front of the customers last night, but I might as well say it out front now. You’re fired.”

  Chelsea didn’t look in the least surprised. In fact, Angie’s statement merely had her lip curling into a disgusted smile as she settled into the booth across from Angie.

  “That amuses you?” Angie asked.

  “Are you sure you want to do that, boss?” Chelsea nodded at the computer print-outs.

  “After last night? Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You’re lookin’ at why you shouldn’t fire me.”

  Angie wasn’t impressed. “I take it you feel the girlie show you provide every time you lean over is responsible for my increase in sales.”

  “It hasn’t hurt,” Chelsea replied. “Besides, I’ve been pushin’ the hard liquor. You get a higher profit with it. Forty percent versus the twenty you make on beer.”

  Angie folded her arms across the papers, matching Chelsea’s glare. “If you know so much, why don’t you own your own place?”

  Chelsea placed her own elbows on the table. “I will someday. That’s what I’m workin’ for. But that’s not why you don’t want to fire me.”

  “Really. And why is that.” Angie didn’t make it a question.

  “‘Cuz I know all about you and the preacher. And you wouldn’t want him to get fired, would you?”

  Angie felt like she’d been slapped, and wanted very much to make Chelsea’s face feel the same way. “You have no idea what you’re talkin’ about,” she said instead.

  “I know all about your bein’ arrested for murderin’ Ernie Masterson last January. I know it’s the preacher who got you off.”

  Angie shrugged. “It so happened I was innocent.”

  “Yes, but who did the deed? It’s amazin’ how the sheriff let the whole case drop when the preacher and you became an item. The preacher and the sheriff are pretty tight, aren’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Angie felt her face getting red.

  “I also know that the sheriff and the preacher are not only hidin’ something about Ernie Masterson’s murder, but about how your mamma died.”

  Angie’s gaze turned lethal. “She was shot by a damned Yankee who didn’t even know he’d hit somebody.”

  Chelsea shook her head. “And you got the Ice House and a bunch of Novak money when the smoke cleared. How…convenient for you that that damned Yankee was a total idiot. I understand the preacher did his best to console you.”

  Angie stood up. “Get out.”

  “No problem. I’m bettin’ I can get a job in Dannerton.”

  “Yes,” Angie agreed. “You are exactly the type of girl they want workin’ at the Pit Stop. I can give you the number.”

  “No need.” Chelsea stood. “I’ll be back for the Fourth of July celebration next week, so I can let my regulars know where to find me.” She headed for the door. “Besides, I’d hate to miss that bus tour that half-nephew of yours is bringin’ through town. Jimmy Novak Jr., right? I bet a lot of reporters travel with him for publicity.” Her hand was on the door, pushing it open.

  “What exactly does that mean?” Angie’s voice was sharp.

  Chelsea turned, and she wore a Cheshire-cat smile. “Why, I’m sure there’ll be someone on that bus who’d want to know all about the secrets of the Novak family. And who their lovers are.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Angie had been in town less than twenty-four hours and already she was putting Matt’s job back in jeopardy.

  “Change your mind about firin’ me?” Chelsea’s chin came up.

  Angie was stumped, and she was furious. How dare this slut threaten her? On the other hand, how much did Chelsea really know about what had happened last January? And who t
he hell had told her?

  “You know you need the help with the increased business around here,” Chelsea said reasonably, but her eyes glowed with victory.

  Maybe keeping her around was the best way to find out what she knew and who had told her. Angie growled, “I don’t like you very much.”

  Chelsea chuckled. “Well, I don’t like you at all, but that doesn’t change a thing, does it?”

  It didn’t. Angie put her hands on her hips and glared. “You will wear decent clothes in here from now on. Shorts and blouses that cover everything. Got it?”

  Chelsea nodded, but she was glaring right back.

  “No more girly games. And no more free drinks. Got it?”

  Again, Chelsea nodded.

  “Get out. Your shift starts at four o’clock.”

  “No problem, boss.” Chelsea’s grin was triumphant. “Oh, and could you get that keg refrigerator fixed before then? The beer’s so warm, we’re pourin’ half your product down the drain. It hurts my tips.”

  Angie had all she could do not to go to the kitchen and get out her gun to shoot the smug little bitch as she sashayed out the door.

  Chapter Eight

  The Past Does Not Always Stay Buried

  Sheriff James W. Novak glanced up at the light tap on his office door. He wasn’t at all surprised when he saw the pale and pitiable Callie Mae Platt standing there. He’d had a notion the grieving mother of Melinda was going to show up sometime today.

  He came around his desk and pulled up a chair for the haggard woman to sit in. “I was goin’ to call you a little later,” he lied. In truth, James W. had been avoiding making the call to the mother for fear of getting a repeat of her hysterics from last night.

  Callie Mae was a dismal-looking woman with long, straight, thin brown hair and a chipped front tooth. James W. had always wondered how a looker like Melinda Platt had come out of a woman like Callie Mae. Well, the girl must’ve taken after the father’s side of the family, though he’d been long out of the picture before Melinda went missing.

  “I understand, Sheriff,” Callie Mae said in her unpleasantly monotone voice, “but I had to come to apologize for my behavior last night.”

  “There’s no need, Callie Mae. You were in shock.” James W. sat down in his leather office chair. He could barely see the small woman over the desk. “I keep hopin’ that I’ll have more news for you, but the coroner hasn’t called yet.”

  Callie Mae firmed what little lip she had. “Was there any…evidence…at the riverbed?”

  “I’ve got Richard Dube and some folks from the Dannerton force scourin’ the riverbanks.” He didn’t mention that they had recovered a little under thirty bones so far, all upper torso.

  Callie Mae sighed. She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. “She was so like her father. I kept thinkin’, hopin’, that maybe she’d gone off to be with him.”

  “I thought you’d lost track of him,” James W. said.

  “I never found out where he ran off to after he left that note, but I always wondered if Melinda knew.” Tears began rolling down her cheeks. She fished for another tissue but couldn’t find one. “It was just so hard not knowin’ what happened to her. It almost killed me those first few years she was gone, but somehow I got used to it. The last year or so I could actually go a couple of days without thinkin’ about her. What kind of a mother does that make me?” She began sobbing.

  “First off, Callie Mae, it makes you a human bein’. Pure and simple. There’s no crime in pain easin’ up a bit after a long time has passed. Fact is, I think that’s one of the copin’ ways God gave us for burdens that are hard to bear.” James W. went to the bathroom off his office and got some paper towels to hand to her.

  “Don’t talk to me about God.” Her voice hardened, and her grief disappeared, replaced by anger.

  “Second, you were a good mother to that girl,” he went on carefully. “Bad things didn’t start happenin’ with her until she hooked up with the wrong crowd in high school. That group she hung out with could teach nuns how to lie.”

  “I know.” Callie Mae sniffed. “I’ve had time to realize that. So what happened to Diane? Did she get on the bus, or is her body around here somewhere?”

  “I’m workin’ on that. I sent my secretary down to the archives to find the file on when the girls went missin’. We only digitized the last seven years’ worth of records—statute of limitations and all that. But I’m goin’ to get to the bottom of this, Callie Mae.”

  “I tried calling Diane’s mother,” Callie Mae said. “She’s from Dannerton, where the girls went to school. We lost track of each other over time. The phone company said that number hadn’t been in use for years.”

  “I’m afraid I do know about Mrs. Turpin. She died a few years back.” James W. avoided mentioning that Mrs. Turpin had drunk herself into a fatal liver disease.

  He helped Callie Mae to her feet. “Now, you go on home and let me get to work. All right?”

  “Promise you’ll call if you find anything out? Either about Melinda or Diane?”

  James W. squeezed her thin shoulders. “I promise. As soon as I get word from the coroner, I’ll let you know when Melinda’s remains can be released so you can plan the funeral with Pastor Hayden.”

  Callie Mae stiffened beneath his hold. “It’ll be at Paradise Funeral Home in Dannerton. I’m never settin’ foot in that man’s church again.”

  He watched the mouse of a woman walk out of the office, then shook his head. Sometimes this job really sucked.

  The phone on his desk rang, and he picked it up, hoping it was the coroner. “Sheriff Novak.”

  “Good mornin’, Sheriff. It’s Leroy, Jimmy Jr.’s press agent?”

  James W. sat down in his chair, a wide smile on his face. He’d much rather think about his son running for governor. “You takin’ care of my boy, Leroy?”

  “Yessir. The Public Policy Poll last week has us dead-even with the Democrats. That’s a four percent increase.”

  James W. heard the optimism in Leroy’s voice, but he also knew that the poll’s margin of error was four per cent. Too close to call.

  “Anyways, I called to talk about our bus blow-through on the Fourth,” Leroy continued. “Your parade starts at 11:30, right?”

  “Yep. The town didn’t have any problem delayin’ it a bit if it meant seein’ Jimmy Jr.”

  “Well, that’s real fine of everybody. We’ll be at the beginnin’ of Houston’s parade that starts at nine a.m., come through Wilks for your parade, and make it to Governor Burr’s barbecue by six.”

  James W. sat up straighter when he saw his secretary enter waving the file he’d been waiting for. He took the manila envelope from her and gave her a grateful salute. “Everything’s ready,” James W. said absently as he slit it open.

  “So, I’ve got a favor to ask of you, James W.”

  “Anything you need, Leroy.” James W. pulled out the folder. There wasn’t much there. He’d been afraid of that.

  “We’re gonna have a reporter from the Dallas Morning News on the bus with us, and he wants to do a story about you.”

  “About me?” That caught James W.’s attention. He put down the records.

  “Sure. You’re the Senior of Jimmy’s Junior. Everybody wants to know about the tree the apple fell from.”

  “Why, I don’t think—”

  “Now, James W., don’t be shy. You’re the sheriff of the town named after your family. Heck, Wilks is yours and Jimmy Jr.’s middle name. I can sure play up the civic service that your son was brought up with—how your family settled the town, has kept their responsibilities to the community. And now that sense of public duty is goin’ state level. I think it’s a great angle.”

  For once, James W. didn’t know what to say. The notion sounded good until the reporter figured out that his father, Cash Novak, was a scoundrel, and his mother, Miss Olivia, had been a domineering tyrant who bullied the town and “took care” of the folks who wouldn’
t give in. Then come to find out he had a half-sister, Angie O’Day, who’d been spawned by his ne’er-do’-well father and the town’s whorehouse bartender.

  Perhaps digging into the Wilks family history was not a great idea.

  “Have you run this by Jimmy Jr.?”

  “What’s to run? It’s a no-brainer. Besides, he knows how happy this’ll make his mother. How’s Elsbeth doin’, anyway?”

  Following in Miss Olivia’s footsteps by aiming to get the town’s preacher fired, James W. thought. Instead he said, “We’re both lookin’ forward to visitin’ with Jimmy Jr., even if only for a short time.”

  “Oh, he’ll be there a bit, James W. Don’t you worry. Heck, gettin’ some photos of him at that ice cream contest y’all have, or maybe eatin’ a bowl of chili at the town’s waterin’ hole, will be good press.”

  The Fire and Ice House? James W.’s eyes grew large. Hell, what if Zach Gibbons was on a binge? He’d already threatened to go public with last January’s fiasco—and Zach didn’t even know the half of it.

  “I’ll have to speak with Jimmy Jr. about this first,” James W. hedged.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it. Besides, I already promised the man an interview with you and your wife. Hold on.” James W. heard a noise in the background, then Leroy’s voice came on again. “Gotta go, James W. I’ll e-mail you the details for the interview. See you next week.”

  The phone clicked in the sheriff’s ear, and he stared at it with an uneasy feeling. For the moment his mind was not on solving Melinda Platt’s murder, but on keeping his family’s history out of the papers—for his son’s sake.

  ***

  By lunch time Owen figured it had been a good thing he hadn’t had much for breakfast. After listening to Zach Gibbons rant and rave about the heat and the work and the injustice of Angie O’Day kicking him out of her bar last night, Owen would have tossed his cookies anyway.

  He was hungry now, however. He drove the half mile to the Sinclair Station across from the Ice House to get some of those dollar hot dogs that turned all day on heated rods. He grabbed up three, dressed them with mustard, put them in a sack and went to the counter to pay.